


Scarcely Can Speak

by QueenForADay



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher Series - Andrzej Sapkowski
Genre: Anal Sex, Bottom Jaskier | Dandelion, Dirty Talk, Established Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Loves Jaskier | Dandelion, Jaskier | Dandelion Loves Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, M/M, Multiple Orgasms, Overstimulation, Pet Names, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Praise Kink, Top Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-18
Updated: 2020-11-18
Packaged: 2021-03-09 18:36:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,636
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27610789
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/QueenForADay/pseuds/QueenForADay
Summary: It’s still dark; though if he spotted the sun, he wouldn’t be surprised. He wouldn’t put it past the Witcher to fuck someone all through the night—And there’s a thought. A stubborn thought that nestled into and buried itself into his brain, and something that he cannot shake off no matter how many times he tries to beat his own head with a stuffy tavern pillow. When he gives up, just because of his body waning that he probably has to sleep before the long walk to Toussaint tomorrow, he lets himself stare at the rafters. The quiet that has settled over him now is deafening.The thought lingers.--Jaskier wants to test out a theory that a Witcher's stamina extends to the bedroom.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia & Jaskier | Dandelion, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 20
Kudos: 737





	Scarcely Can Speak

He’s not going to say that he wasn’t curious. Whatever it was that had a seasoned professional like Madame Iona blushing like a vestal maiden warranted investigation.

So he set a plan in motion; he would buy the madam enough goblets of wine to dull her inhibitions and lure what he could out of her. His plan failed at the first small smile he sent her way. He likes whore houses, and not in the way that most do. Those working inside are often full of interesting stories and more often than not up for a good drink. And if they happen to fall into a bed later on, then that’s fine too. His plan failed because Madame Iona knows what he’s like, and before he can even lift his hand to order a drink, she catches his wrist. “Don’t even think about it,” she warns, but a something curls the corner of her lip. She might not have as much time for Jaskier’s antics anymore, but she’s fond of the bard. He makes sure moods are jovial and with enough songs and wine and ale, people are often in the mood for company.

Jaskier’s sigh is heavy, overly put out. “You’re no fun,” he half-sulks.

Geralt had retired long ago, muttering something about being tired and sore from his latest hunt. Jaskier had offered to draw him a bath. That slowly became a tradition of theirs. A warm bath sweet with oils and lotions, and a good night’s sleep always seemed to leave the Witcher in a good mood. But Jaskier got shaken off. Before he could even collect his lute and his doublet, hanging from the back of a chair, the Witcher was already gone.

He managed to play a few more tunes before his fingers started to hum. Travelling between villages and towns and cities was exhausting. And while he was always up for performing for a crowd, especially when Madame Iona promised him free board and food to compensate, his body began to protest.

The madam of the house was a frequent contact whenever they travelled along this particular road. She was always keen to have them; Jaskier lured in a crowd and filled her pockets with gold, either from the mead and meals, or her beds upstairs were all fallen into. Now, though, his fingers are tense and sore and the sweat keeping his hair stuck to his forehead and neck is beginning to cool.

Iona looks out on to her house, watching with a keen eye as her birds flutter out and fall on to laps. A flush of colour still stains her cheeks, one that she’ll inevitably blame on the warmth of the house. The laces of Jaskier’s shirt are mostly undone, with the opening of his collar dipping down to the centre of his chest, with the lapels parted. It _is_ warm. Dancing around a tavern packed with people always wrings sweat out of him.

He curls into Iona’s side, ignoring the sideways glare she gives him. “Do you have any piece of scandal to share with your good friend?”

“I’m sure I do,” Iona says simply, keeping her eyes on literally anyone else. “When a good friend walks in, I’ll be sure to share it with them.”

Jaskier gapes. “Oh, you’re awful! Just awful!” He clicks his tongue. “Honestly, I don’t know why I bother coming here.”

“Because you and your Witcher would have to camp outside and starve otherwise,” Iona replies easily, because it’s true. The contract done today will keep their purses filled just enough to carry them to the next village. Food and board would have cost too much, and might have been a one or the other choice to be made. _Thank the gods for Iona_ , Jaskier says to himself, though he would never let the madam hear it.

“Your Witcher,” Iona lulls after a while, musing over her words as easy as she savours wine, “left with one of my girls.”

Jaskier tries to cast his mind back. He had spent most of his attentions on luring jovial songs out of even the most sour-faced sailors, smirking with them when they begrudgingly started to hum along with him. He likes to keep an eye on his Witcher – selfishly, it’s just to make sure that Geralt is smiling too. The grumpy old sod will deny it to his last breath, but Jaskier sees how he struggles to shadow the slight curl to his lip whenever Jaskier ends a song.

Jaskier hums, ignoring the slight sour taste that stings his mouth. They’re in a whorehouse. What did he expect?

“Viola,” Iona presses on. “She’s a good lass. Attentive. Eager.” Something in Iona’s eyes changes. The blush warming her cheeks darkens. “She came down a few minutes ago, asking one of the other girls to come up with her.”

Jaskier frowns. It’s a small thing, barely knitting his brows together. “I wasn’t aware we had the coin for more than one person for company,” he says, not at all happy at how the words sour his tongue. He takes a measured sip of sweetened wine, hoping it will mellow it out. It doesn’t.

Madame Iona’s flush darkens. She turns to him, setting her drained goblet on the bar, but leaning into him to murmur under her breath. “Apparently she needed assistance.” And with _whatever that was_ , she leaves.

Jaskier blinks. Iona’s words sit with him, even when the madam stalks off to some other part of her house. More patrons fall into line at the bar, calling out for more drinks. All of it slips away.

The images that flicker in front of him don’t seem too fond of leaving, no matter how many times he tries to swat them away. He shouldn’t. He _really_ shouldn’t let those images linger, no matter how insistent they are on blinking in front of him. He hasn’t had the fortune, good or bad, to ever stumble into a room and found Geralt with another person – except that tiny incident in Rinde, something he doesn’t think he’ll ever be able to forget. Even when they share rooms, a necessity sometimes on the road because of light coin purses and the availability of rooms, he can’t recall any time he’s seen Geralt with someone else. The emphasis on _seen_ , because he’s certainly _heard_ quite a lot of interesting things; on those chances where they have enough coin for two rooms, and those rooms are separate by tragically thin walls.

Then his mind does wander, painting images in front of him that he does try his very hardest to swat away. Like now. Jaskier bites the inside of his cheek, just enough to wane Iona’s words from his mind for a moment. But as soon as the ebb of pain withers away, her voice comes back.

He hums.

_She needed assistance._

Interesting.

* * *

It would be correct, in a sense, to say that Jaskier has no shame. But he’s not shameless. Does he confront Geralt about his latest conquest, or _conquests_ , the very next morning? Absolutely not. Jaskier’s mind has other plans, though; already tugging a small smile out of him before something more logical can step forward and slap some sense into him.

He’s heard rumours. Rumours from layfolk who don’t know much about Witchers, but like to think that they do. Jaskier was one of them, though now he thinks he knows entirely too much about Witchers – despite Geralt’s efforts to not tell him anything ever.

He knows that Witchers have heightened senses; incredibly helpful for stalking and hunting and just surviving out in the wilds.

He knows that Witchers are stronger than most; incredibly helpful for fighting off all sorts of creatures and monsters.

And he knows, not because Geralt told him or anything, but more that he just deduced it by himself, that a Witcher’s stamina is higher than most. He’s seen it in the way that Geralt can traveller further in a day, covering more ground than even the most seasoned of travelling merchants. Jaskier’s feet can attest to that. And the Witcher can both eat nothing for a few days and then fill his stomach twice over with food on other days.

Jaskier just had to wonder did that same stamina extend to the bedroom. And from what he hears, when their rooms are separated by a thin wall of wood, is that _yes_ , _yes it most certainly does_. Thin tavern walls have separated them in the night, when Jaskier finds himself too tired to even entertain the idea of returning a barmaid’s smile or taking that blacksmith’s offer up. He’ll fall headfirst into bed, struggling to even pull off his doublet and boots in order to slip underneath the sheets.

And then he’ll hear it. The Witcher might keep himself to himself in terms of words – Jaskier can count on one hand the number of times he’s spoken back to Jaskier whenever he tries to talk to him – but that doesn’t mean that the Witcher is quiet.

Jaskier remembers the first time. Listen, he understands. They all have needs. He’s no hypocrite; if he had more energy, he would have probably fallen into bed with someone else too. But he’s here, alone, staring up at the rafters overhead, trying his very best not to listen. And it’s difficult, especially when tavern walls are as thin as they are.

Warmth flushes across his face. It’s fine. It’s so fine. This is _fine._

He can feel his core start to tighten and terribly persistent images pop up in his head. Soon, fiendish whispers join them too. _Gods, imagine if that were me_. Jaskier squeezes his eyes shut, balling his hands into fists, and pressing them into his eyes. **_Shut up_**.

It goes on...for a while. He isn’t sure how long. Whoever it is who fell into Geralt’s bed does leave at one point. Jaskier lifts his head and listens to the telltale padding of bare feet over the floorboards outside, and the gentle click of a room’s door closing.

He glances outside. It’s still dark; though if he spotted the sun, he wouldn’t be surprised. He wouldn’t put it past the Witcher to fuck someone all through the night—

And there’s a thought. A stubborn thought that nestled into and buried itself into his brain, and something that he cannot shake off no matter how many times he tries to beat his own head with a stuffy tavern pillow. When he gives up, just because of his body waning that he probably has to sleep before the long walk to Toussaint tomorrow, he lets himself stare at the rafters. The quiet that has settled over him now is deafening.

The thought lingers.

So Jaskier sets on a personal journey to try and test it out for himself.

* * *

When he _does_ get Geralt into a bed with him – because Jaskier is incredibly charming and if he were to spend one more night in the company of either someone else or his own hand, he was going to scream – he can’t help but laugh.

“I heard a rumour about you, Witcher,” Jaskier smiles against Geralt’s lips, giddy and trembling already as nimble finger start unlacing the collar of his shirt. Kaer Morhen will be their home for the season, with Geralt managing to bumble out an invitation under his breath one day after one too many seasons spent apart. By the time they made it up the mountain, the sun was starting to slip beneath the nearby ridge. Winter nights tended to be long and drawn out, and what else would they be doing but warming themselves by the great hall’s hearth and nursing goblets of wine? Lips loosened, maybe Jaskier said one too many things that sounded suspiciously like confessions. He didn’t even have the wherewithal to try and wrangle any of them back once they slipped out of numbed lips.

Geralt mused over his confessions, letting them sit between them for a _painfully_ long time.

And now they’re here; sprawled across Geralt’s bed, with Jaskier marvelling and appreciating the sturdy weight of the Witcher on top of him. All the years of them skirting around each other flashes in front of him like afterimages, so he just laughs. They’re lost to Geralt’s lips. The Witcher is a very insistent kisser, but gods alive is he a good one. Soft lips that have just lightly cracked from their journey up the mountain’s trails, but pull the most delightful noises out of the bard.

A hum rumbles out of Geralt’s chest. He manages to part from Jaskier’s lips for a moment. His hair has started falling out of its tie, with wisps of it hanging down around them and dusting Jaskier’s face. “What kind of rumours?” he rasps.

Jaskier tries to catch his eye – the gold that he’s come to cherish over the years. His Witcher seems more interested in stripping every piece of clothing standing in the way of their skin. With the last of the laces of his shirt pulled apart, Jaskier helps in wrangling it up and over his head. Geralt throws it off of the bed, with it being forgotten about before it’s even hit the floor. Jaskier responds in kind. It’s only fair that if he’s going to be stripped, he might as well have company. Though he isn’t sure if it’s the wine humming through his veins or if he’s still cold from the climb up the mountain, but his fingers are numb and they fumble with ties and laces and buttons.

The smile doesn’t budge from his lips. “I heard,” he lowers his voice to nothing more than a rumble, delighted in the small hitch of Geralt’s breath that it earns, “that Witchers have _incredible_ stamina in bed.”

Jaskier glances up at the Witcher, brave enough to try and hold the man’s golden gaze. He arches an eyebrow. _Well?_

A small huff of a laugh escapes him. “There are plenty of rumours about me that are just that: rumours,” Geralt replies, letting his hands journey down Jaskier’s bare side. Warm hands bubble gooseflesh in their wake. Jaskier tries to bite down on the shiver that tries to tremble through him. If this is what the Witcher’s touch can do to him, how in the name of all of the gods is he meant to survive an endless night with him?

He glances up at the rafters overhead, sort of hoping that one of those gods is up there, looking back down at him. _You couldn’t offer a bit of help, could you?_ He shouldn’t make any wishes to the gods. He isn’t the most religious or pious of men. He could argue that he isn’t religious or pious at all. The whole pantheon of gods in the skies above would probably laugh in his face if he ever tried to ask anything of them.

Geralt is stubbornly dismissive of the whole thing. He’s getting down to business, bless him, but Jaskier pokes his side. “Do you remember Iona?” he asks. “Madame Iona in...gods, I can’t even remember the name of the town. Anyway. She told me that two girls went up to you. _Two_. Was one not enough?”

And the Witcher _laughs_. It’s quiet, nothing more than a shake of his shoulders, and most of it is lost to Jaskier’s skin as lips dust and brush over his chest. Golden eyes flicker up at him, and Jaskier struggles to keep his breathing level. Though, he doesn’t have any doubts that the Witcher can hear how much of an effort he’s putting in to keep his breathing regular. But his heart is beating so hard and fast, it might just burst out of his chest.

He’s been with... _exuberant_ lovers before. He’s seen to each of them being rendered boneless by the time he slips out of their beds and chambers, quick to avoid any relatives or intendeds waiting to bash his head in. But he can also say that many of those same lovers wouldn’t extend the same courtesy to him. Not that it’s entirely their fault. Sometimes the odds – or furious cuckolded husbands – are against him.

But the Witcher; Jaskier has him, lured him with sweet words over one too many a tankard of ale, with his tongue finally lose enough to let slip the secret he’s been carrying for years. And Geralt watched him with the same intense stare he gives to most people and monsters whenever he’s trying to get a read on them. When he finally moved, mainly pressured to do so by Jaskier almost standing up to leave and scurry back to his own room, it was to catch the bard’s wrist and drag him to Geralt and kiss him. Even though it’s only been a few minutes since – one of them having the idea to run up to Geralt’s room and do whatever they want to do there, and not potentially be spotted by any of Geralt’s family – Jaskier’s toes still curl at the buzzing feeling lingering on his lips from that first kiss.

Clothes are stripped and thrown into some random corner of the room, entirely forgotten about. Something lecherous whispers in the back of Jaskier’s mind that he won’t be needing them any time soon.

It’s a blur of movements. Kisses pressed against warm skin, wandering hands that map out every knotted scar, shared breath between them. At the first brush of thick, oiled fingers against his hole, he knows he’s lost. It’s not the fact that it’s easy to lure him down into pleasure; it’s just, from the beginning of what he hopes is a long entanglement together, Geralt already knows exactly where and when and how to touch him and wring him apart.

It might have been his own fault. Geralt was insistent on starting with something like Jaskier’s fingers or hands or his mouth. And the bard complied. He felt the Witcher harden as they ground together like teenagers, kicking the last shreds of bedsheets out of the way and grappling to pin each other down on to the mattress. And his hand ventured down, curling around Geralt’s length and helping the first few beads of release gather at the top of the Witcher’s cock, wetting his way. Geralt’s hand covered his, tightening to how he liked it, and guiding Jaskier’s strokes. Tight and slow is apparently what he likes.

Even then, even when Jaskier gave him his mouth and let Geralt do whatever he liked with it, it didn’t seem like it was enough. So Jaskier offered him his ass, like any good lover would, in his opinion. He lured Geralt on top of him with coy words and a coyer smile and let the Witcher push into him.

Geralt...is a lot. Jaskier has been rendered boneless before. When a particularly good fuck leaves him buzzing, lounging in the last few tremors left behind even after his bedmate has slipped away from him.

But this is something else. His first crest over the edge might have done it for the night. He was already so tightly coiled before they had even started, as Geralt’s rumbling growls against his neck and the sure thrusts of his cock inside of him didn’t do any favours to stave off release. Jaskier’s breath caught and his vision blurred and his hold on Geralt tightened. Pleasure washed over him and almost dragged him under.

But the Witcher kept going. He did pause, waiting for the last of the tremors to shake out of the body beneath him, before picking up his movements again.

And _gods_ did noises slip out of Jaskier. Half-formed attempts at Geralt’s name, groans and gasps, and hitches in his breath. The hold around Geralt’s shoulders tightens, pressing the Witcher flush against him. It’s too much. It’s too much, but he wouldn’t dare dream of telling Geralt to stop. He lets himself lounge in the feeling. It laps over him like the ocean, washing over and dragging him under. His nerves are still sparking, even when Geralt’s thrusts start again. He’s just lying here now, nothing more than Geralt to fuck into and chase down his own release.

The thought has a moan slipping out of him.

Some treacherous part of Jaskier has him hardening again. And a choked sound escapes him.

Geralt slips away from his hold, lifting himself up and bracing his hands on either side of Jaskier’s head and knotting his hands into the bedsheets. His hips roll and grind against Jaskier’s, with his cock reaching every place inside him that has him wanting to scream and cry and moan at the same time. Jaskier sets a single hand to Geralt’s abdomen, his fingertips numb and tingling, but just wanting to feel the heat of the other man.

It infuriates him. Geralt still looks as put together as he did when they started. How long have they been fucking? All concept of time has slipped away from him. Apart from a few stray strands of hair that have escaped its tie, and a light flush warming the Witcher’s chest, his breathing and movements are steady and easy. And Jaskier fucking _hates it_.

Something must show on his face. Geralt watches him intently, and Jaskier regains enough of his vision just enough to watch a small slow smirk stretch across Geralt’s lips.

Fine.

Right.

If that’s how he’s going to play it.

Let it be known that Jaskier Pankratz isn’t a capable lover, able to give back what others dole out.

He splays his legs as much as he can, opening himself up for the Witcher to get deeper into him – if that’s at all a possibility. He feels so deep already, reaching far into him that Jaskier can practically feel him in his throat. But he hooks one leg over Geralt’s hip, resting the heel of his foot into the small of the Witcher’s back as a gentle encouragement. He sends the most challenging look he can up to the other man. _Go on then, you bastard._

The hands by Jaskier’s head, the ones clutching at the bedsheets, turn into a white-knuckled grip. Geralt’s hips quicken, firm rolls of his hips and driving himself deeper into Jaskier. The bard’s breath hitches, but he lifts his hips, letting them meet Geralt’s in a sordid slap of skin.

The coil in his core starts to tighten again. He can feel it slowly rising, thinning his breath and deepening his moans. “Geralt,” he whines, reaching down to tug at his cock. It’s red and ruddy and with his last release still stained over his abdomen, it’s wet. Geralt’s head hangs, watching Jaskier’s hand. His thrusts quicken, snapping into Jaskier again and again, pushing him along until—

Whatever moan that was going to slip out of him catches in his throat as his cock spills over his abdomen again. There isn’t a lot in it, but a small dribble that splatters on to his skin.

Geralt pulls out, shuffling away for a moment. Jaskier whines, his arm falling away from his eyes to see where _the fuck the Witcher has gone_ —

Two firm hands grab the back of his thighs and drag him further down the bed. The nest of pillows that had been propping him up slip away as he finds himself in the middle of the bed, the Witcher looming above him. Those same hands catch his hips, turning him abruptly on to his stomach. A moan slips out of him. _Gods alive, he’s going to die._

He barely has enough wherewithal to get his knees underneath him, but Geralt helps. _Helps_ insomuch as he manhandles Jaskier up and back on to his own thick thighs. He feels like one of Iona’s whores, something for Geralt to play with and use. And the thought doesn’t sit wrong with him at all. If anything, his bastard cock twitches at the thought of it.

Hidden away from the Continent, kept to the bed of a Witcher for the season, doing nothing more than letting the man do whatever he likes with him. And Geralt could do anything to him. Jaskier’s eyelids flutter closed. Each thrust into him ignites his blood again until it’s too much and he can feel sweat beading on his skin. He paws for a pillow, huddling it towards him to bury any sound in it. Though the keep seems to stretch out in all directions, backed up against a mountain and shrouded in a thick forest stretching towards the horizon, he wonders idly at how well sound travels in hallowed stone halls. Pretty damn well, he’d imagine. His flush only darkens at the thought of Geralt’s brothers hearing them. At Geralt’s _father_ hearing them.

Though, Geralt doesn’t seem particularly bothered. The prick.

He manages to hide a handful of groans into the pillow, his eyes rolling at every brush of Geralt’s cock against that spot inside of him that has stars dazzling in his eyes and him wanting to both push back against Geralt’s hips and pull away from the onslaught of sensation all the same.

When Jaskier manages to turn away from the pillow, it’s only to draw in as much clear air as he can. Out of the corner of his eye, he can see the Witcher, poised above him and mounting him fiercely. More hair has tumbled out of its tie, dusting his shoulders. Jaskier’s fingers twitch. He wants to curl the locks around his fingers and pull and tug, luring as much noise as he can out of his Witcher. Because if the keep is going to hear them anyway, well he might as well go for broke.

But putting his arms underneath him and pushing up, that would require effort. And Geralt has fucked most of that out of him. All he can do is lie pliant for the Witcher, tightening himself whenever he can. And his chest rumbles in a pleased him at the small stutter in Geralt’s sure thrusts. He’s having some effect on the Witcher. Good. He’s an _excellent_ lay.

“Geralt,” he manages to gasp after a time, blearily looking up at the Witcher. “Geralt, please.”

The Witcher’s smile only grows. It turns into something feral, something he hasn’t seen from Geralt ever. “What is it, lark?” “What do you need?”

Gods, he doesn’t know. “Please,” he gasps, his eyes fluttering shut again, “please, come. I, gods, I need you so bad—”

Sure hands that had a relentless grip on his hips haul him up. Jaskier moves, not of his own accord, until he’s saddled on to Geralt’s thighs and his back lies flush against a warm, firm chest. The new position only drives Geralt deeper into him. A half-choked off groan slips out of him, with some resemblance of Geralt’s name laced through it. He’s barely settled before another sensation washes over him.

Lips set against the shell of his ear, breathing sordid words. Jaskier’s breath hitches. Geralt doesn’t talk, not on the road at least, but here, in the safety and familiarity of his own keep and within his own room, _gods_ —

“Oh, I’m in no rush,” the words seem to rumble out of the depths of his chest, “we have all night after all.”

Jaskier’s moan cuts off at the thought of it. The winter nights stretch on for hours. And if Geralt plans on keeping him here until the first streaks of sunlight stretch over the nearby ridge...

Geralt grinds up into him, wringing more pleasure out of him than Jaskier has ever experienced in his life. He’s wet and loose and barely strong enough to hold himself up at all. He slumps against Geralt’s chest, reclining his head back and letting it rest on the Witcher’s shoulders. His brows knit together at the first brush of lips against his cheek. Such a soft touch, one that’s barely there, but it says all that it needs to.

In case he was in any doubt of it, Geralt breathes against his cheek. “You’re so good for me, my little lark.” It rumbles out of the depths of Geralt’s chest. One strong arm curls around Jaskier’s abdomen, keeping him close. Jaskier paws at Geralt’s forearm, trying to get some hold on the man, but his fingers are numb and tingling. He’s cresting again, somehow. Soft words breathed against him lure something out of the depths of him and it might just smother him.

Geralt keeps them close. His hips quicken again, fucking up into Jaskier. He’s chasing down his own release, the bard notices through the haze. “You feel amazing, lark. Wet and hot and _tight_ ,” Geralt mutters, his breath starting to thin. Jaskier’s moan catches as soon as he feels familiar firm fingers curl around his cock, coaxing the coil in Jaskier’s abdomen to tighten. “I’d keep you here for as long as I could. Would you like that? To spend the season in my bed, forever stretched out and ready to take me? I’d leave you open and wet, my lark, so I could slip back into you whenever I returned.”

Jaskier moans. The scene plays out in front of him. And he’s _very much_ a fan.

Blearily, and without much grace, Jaskier’s hand finds the arch of Geralt’s hip. He tries to firm his grip, urging the Witcher on. He has him. He can have him for as long as he likes, but he needs something, anything—

“That’s it,” Geralt rumbles, feeling how Jaskier trembles around him and tightens up, “that’s it, little bird, just a bit more.”

Jaskier’s hold on Geralt’s hip tightens. He’s close. He’s close and he’s chasing down release, even though it will probably be the last time he tumbles over that particular edge.

He clamps down on Geralt as best as he can, feeling the coil start to tighten and curl and hunch him over. Where he bends, Geralt follows, poised over him and mounting him with everything he has. Words wisp against the shell of his ear. “Come for me,” Geralt gasps hotly against him. The grip he has on Jaskier’s hip tightens into something white-knuckles. “Come for me, lark. Let me see you fall apart again.”

With how intensely Geralt has watched him fall apart over the last gods’-know-how-many-hours, he imagines that the Witcher has grown to worship the sight. He tries to push his hips back against him, to grind and work his cock against that spot in Jaskier that has his vision whitening. But the hand around his cock tightens and strokes him in a particular way and he comes—

He feels himself bowing, but being held against Geralt. Distantly, he feels the Witcher’s hips still and stay flush against him. Jaskier’s eyes roll at the feeling of hot release flooding him, some of it already slipping back down Geralt’s cock and leaking out of him. The room smells like them; the tang of sweat and sex wisped through the musk.

And it’s all too much.

Geralt brings them down. He can guess as much because the next thing he feels, while his spirit hovers somewhere above them, is the plush give of the mattress and pillows. The linens and silks aren’t too much for his nerves, still firing off at all angles. When Geralt slips out of him, finally softened and taking a trail of cum with him, Jaskier’s breath hitches.

A question rumbles above him. “Does that answer your question, bard?”

Gods alive, he can barely even string a sentence together. The words are there, but they’re just beyond reach. He gathers his words, but just content to lie half-buried among the sheets. He’s distantly aware of Geralt slipping from the bed, padding over to a nearby washbasin and returning with a wet cloth. Jaskier’s hum is entirely lost to the pillow he cuddles close to him. “I don’t know,” he slurs, the words bumbling out from numb lips. “I think I’ll have to do more research. In the name of science, of course.”

Geralt’s laugh is nothing more than a short huff. “Of course,” he rumbles, cleaning up the last traces of him from Jaskier. And the bard takes a moment to mourn that. Though, if the winter goes the way he wants it to, he doubts that he’ll spend long without Geralt’s scent embedded into his skin. 

Sleep does its best to tug at him, luring him under. His body sinks into the mattress, with it almost giving way completely and letting him sink down through on to the floor. In one of his more lucid moments, he hears the rustling of sheets and the warmth of them pulled over him.

Geralt eventually joins him, slipping into bed. Jaskier whines at being moved. He wants to sleep. It’s spent enough time lingering in the shadows, and it’s just starting to slink out and stalk towards him. But he’s eventually settled back on to his stomach, with the Witcher coiled around and on him. Heat blooms through his skin, burrowing through to settle in his bones. He just about manages to crack his eyes open. He tries not to be surprised at how close the Witcher is to him. He’s just a touch away.

Geralt leans down, pressing a kiss to Jaskier’s sweat-soaked shoulder. “Sleep,” he rumbles. Familiar fingers travel and dust over the small of the bard’s back. His skin is already starting to cool, but it could all spark up and reignite again. Geralt seems to have some mercy on him though. His touches stay strictly above his waistline, just brushing reassuringly and fondly over the ridges of his spine. It’s lulling. Jaskier’s eyelids are too heavy to stay open. They fall, and within moments, sleep pulls him under.

**Author's Note:**

> One day, I'll learn how to end a fic. Today is not that day.
> 
> \--
> 
> tumblrs;  
> yourqueenforayear (personal) || agoodgoddamnshot (writing)
> 
> twitter;  
> better_marksman
> 
> Kudos & Comments are gladly appreciated!


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